Pizza Cake

by Morris Gleitzman

  I always feel guilty as I dump my breakfast in the bin, because I know it was cooked with love. Mum and Dad are the most loving parents in the world. They’re just not that good at cooking.

  Or listening.

  After I’ve dumped my breakfast, I take my lunch box from my school bag, open the lid carefully, try not to breathe in the revolting smell, and dump my lunch too.

  Today’s smell is even worse than usual.

  It’s partly the salami-mousse sandwich, which is one of Mum’s favourites. But mostly it’s the tickled onions.

  That’s what Dad calls them, and I suppose he’s allowed to because he invented them. They’re like regular pickled onions except for the rose petals and chilli powder and fermented fish paste.

  Into the garbage they go.

  Some of the kids from my class are watching me and giggling.

  ‘Mental,’ I hear a couple of them whisper as usual.

  I sigh as usual.

  I don’t really mind. Not that much. I’m used to it. I’ve been doing this since year one and we’re in year six now.

  But I live in hope that one day I’ll hear the other kids whisper something else. Something like, ‘Poor Clyde, it must be really hard for him, having parents whose hobby is amateur cooking.’

  I’d really like that.

  Oh well, at least my morning routine isn’t as bad as Hamish Hodge’s. At least I don’t have to actually eat this muck. Not like poor Hamish.

  Here he comes now, with Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic.

  I hate this. They’re twisting Hamish’s arms even further up his back than they usually do.

  I wish they’d grow up. Most of us year sixes are in the footy club or the movie club or the phone club. But Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic had to be different. They had to start a club called Overweight Watchers. A whole club just to make fun of overweight people.

  ‘Hodge Podge coming through,’ the club members are chanting like they do every morning. ‘Starving fat boy hasn’t eaten for ten minutes. Needs to see what’s on the breakfast menu.’

  This is usually when I turn away.

  It’s not just the horrible sight of Hamish having his head forced into a bin. It’s the look he usually gives me before it happens. A look that says, ‘If only you’d eat your breakfast, I wouldn’t have to.’

  But today I’m not turning away.

  I’m taking a couple of steps towards Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Lay off him.’

  What’s going on? Hunger must be scrambling my brain and giving me the powerful desire to spend a couple of weeks in hospital hooked up to a drip.

  Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic are glaring at me. They’re all big, specially Vic who does weightlifting as part of her netball training.

  I’m quite tall, but I don’t have much meat on my bones. It’s not really surprising, seeing as I live on one meal a day from the bins, plus whatever sandwiches I can get from people for doing their homework.

  ‘Creepy Craddock’s being a hero,’ says Jock, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘Risking his neck for Hodge Podge. I didn’t know you two were friends.’

  Hamish Hodge is looking at me as well, eyes wide and confused because we’re not friends. Other expressions twitch onto his plump face. He’s hoping I’ll save him. He’s also worrying I’ll make things worse.

  I started this, so I have to finish it. Dad says it’s important to finish what you start, though he’s usually talking about food.

  ‘Yeah, me and Hamish are good friends,’ I say to Jock. ‘I’m going to his place for dinner tonight.’

  I hadn’t planned to say that, but now I have, it sounds like quite a good idea.

  Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic are looking surprised.

  So is Hamish.

  Then all the others smirk.

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ says Vic. ‘A loony who chucks his food in the bin having dinner with a fatso who can’t stop eating.’

  They all have a big laugh.

  Until Jock stops and gets serious.

  ‘And why exactly should we lay off Hodge Podge?’ he says, sticking his face close to mine. ‘Is it cause you’re gunna make us?’

  Jock’s breath smells of bacon. I feel faint with hunger. But I manage to remember what I need to say.

  I look Jock right in the eyes.

  ‘PD project,’ I say.

  Jock frowns. Rick, Mick, Jack and Vic glance at each other. Slowly they realise what I mean.

  Yesterday Ms Dunphy set a really difficult Personal Development project. It’s on Empathy. Four hundred words on Other People’s Feelings, by next Tuesday.

  ‘If you let Hamish go,’ I say to Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic, ‘I’ll help you with it.’

  Jock thinks about this.

  ‘If we let the fat boy go,’ he says, ‘we’re not giving you sandwiches as well.’

  ‘Deal,’ I say.

  The Overweight Watchers club members look at each other, nod, scowl at me, scowl at Hamish, and wander away.

  Hamish is panting with relief.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I thought I was going to have to eat those stinky horrible onions again.’

  He remembers where the onions come from.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You can make it up to me with a delicious meal tonight.’

  Hamish stares at me, alarmed.

  ‘Were you serious about coming to dinner?’ he says.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I don’t joke about food. Food is the most important thing in my life. I haven’t had a decent meal since I was four.’

  While we walk to his place after school, Hamish tells me a bit about himself. We’ve never really had a chance to talk much. He’s only been at the school eight months and he’s spent a lot of that time with his head in a bin.

  ‘I wasn’t always porky,’ he says. ‘I used to be almost as skinny as you.’

  ‘What happened?’ I say.

  I heard somewhere that thyroid glands, whatever they are, can sometimes make people fat. Probably depends how they’re cooked.

  ‘My mum died,’ says Hamish.

  I give him a sympathetic look. It’s moments like this you realise food isn’t the most important thing.

  Not quite.

  ‘My dad’s in charge of meals now,’ says Hamish gloomily. ‘He likes huge meals. Every day.’

  This sounds promising.

  ‘What’s for tea tonight?’ I say.

  ‘Dunno,’ says Hamish. ‘Could be anything.’

  I smile.

  Anything, sure, but I’m pretty confident it won’t be seafood sausages with pig-liver marmalade.

  Hamish’s house is nice. Bit like ours, but tidier.

  As we come in, a man’s voice calls out.

  ‘Nearly finished, Hamie. Get yourself a snack.’

  We go into the kitchen. Hamish explains that his dad is a freelance journalist who works at home. I nod, but I’m not fully paying attention. I’ve just noticed something that’s making me feel nervous.

  There’s no food in the kitchen.

  In our kitchen there are jars and packets stacked everywhere, and stuff hanging up all over the place. Chillies and herbs and bits of dried goat. It’s all yuk, but there’s heaps of it.

  Here, nothing.

  Hamish opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of water.

  I peek in while the door’s open. I see some old fruit, half a packet of cheese and a jar of vegemite.

  Where are the huge meals?

  ‘Hi there, Hamie,’ says Hamish’s dad behind us. ‘Who’s this?’

  Hamish’s dad is exactly the same shape as Hamish. Not blubbery or anything, but happily plump. I’d like to be that shape.

  ‘Clyde’s my best friend at school,’ says Hamish.

  I try to look as though I am. Which isn’t that hard because I don’t think Hamish has got any other friends.

  ‘Can Clyde eat with us tonight?’ Ha
mish says to his dad.

  Mr Hodge looks me up and down.

  ‘Looks like he needs to,’ he chuckles. ‘We’re going to a steakhouse. That OK with you, Clyde?’

  I nod so hard I get giddy.

  ‘Right-oh then,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘Let’s give your folks a call.’

  I can’t believe it.

  This steakhouse menu is amazing.

  Most of the steaks are half a kilo at least. And this place obviously hasn’t even heard of pig-liver marmalade.

  The only thing I’m a bit worried about is the prices. I don’t want to send Mr Hodge broke.

  Mr Hodge looks up from his menu.

  ‘OK, boys,’ he says. ‘What are you having? Anything you like.’

  I glance uncertainly across the table at Hamish.

  ‘It’s OK,’ says Hamish quietly. ‘The magazine’s paying.’

  I’m not sure what he means.

  ‘My dad does restaurant reviews,’ explains Hamish. ‘Two a week for a magazine, plus five for their website.’

  ‘Seven restaurants a week,’ says Mr Hodge. He grins. ‘Lucky there are seven dinnertimes a week. And lucky I’ve got a hungry son to help me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Hamish miserably. ‘Very lucky.’

  ‘I’m also writing a book,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘One Thousand And One Restaurants You Must Visit Before You Diet.’

  Hamish rolls his eyes.

  ‘Only joking,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘Now, what do you like the look of?’

  ‘Um,’ I say, trying not to speak too fast, ‘can I have the eight hundred and fifty gram Ridiculously Rotund Rump, please?’

  ‘You sure can,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘I’m having the Ludicrously Large Lamb Fillet, so, Hamie, would you mind having the Colossal Kilo T-Bone so you can tell me what it’s like?’

  Hamish nods unhappily. I can see he’s wondering how much plumper he’ll be in the morning. And whether Rick, Jock, Nick, Jack and Vic will notice.

  Hamish’s dad is studying the menu again.

  ‘Right,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘We need to have a starter each, two if you can manage it. And lots of side serves. Fries, onion rings, wedges, nachos. OK?’

  Hamish doesn’t say anything, so I answer for us both.

  ‘OK,’ I say, grinning.

  ‘Thanks for last night,’ says Hamish the next morning.

  I look up from the garbage bin, where I’m dumping a bag of scrambled eggs. The smell of the sardines and the raspberry vinegar in the eggs is making my eyes water, so I can’t see Hamish, but I assume he’s being sarcastic. It must be awful, not enjoying eating in restaurants.

  My eyes clear and, to my surprise, Hamish is looking grateful.

  I’m glad. I’m feeling grateful too.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Hamish. ‘It was the best meal of my life.’

  ‘Dunno how you did it,’ says Hamish, ‘eating all the side serves and three desserts and half my T-bone as well as your steak, but thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I say, opening my lunchbox and tossing a dried-goat-and-curdled-whey sourdough sandwich into the bin.

  A shadow falls over us.

  Five shadows, actually.

  Before Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic can get started on Hamish, I reach into my bag and pull out a sheet of paper.

  ‘I’ve done you some project notes,’ I say. ‘Just some basic stuff about other people’s feelings, what they are, how they work, how to spot them, stuff like that.’

  I hold the sheet of paper out to them. Rick, Jock, Mick, Jack and Vic huddle around and peer at it.

  ‘I’ll do some more tomorrow,’ I say.

  The weight-mocking club glare at me. They glare at Hamish. They’re probably feeling a bit stressed at the sight of Hamish with his head not in a bin. But Jock snatches the sheet of paper and they leave.

  Hamish is looking at me. I can see there’s something he wants to say. I assume it’s another thank you, but it turns out to be something slightly different.

  ‘Clyde,’ he says. ‘Do you want to have dinner with us again tonight?’

  ‘Good word, “yummy”, very good,’ says Mr Hodge, opening his notebook on the restaurant table and jotting my word down. ‘I don’t use that word enough. What about the roast chicken? How would you describe that?’

  I think of a different word because I figure that’s what a journalist would want.

  ‘Delish,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ says Mr Hodge, writing again. ‘What about you, Hamie?’

  ‘I didn’t have any chicken, Dad,’ says Hamish.

  ‘No problem,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘The lamb chops?’

  ‘I didn’t have any of those either,’ says Hamish.

  I did, the lamb chops were yummy, but now I’m struggling to come up with a new word.

  ‘Lambent,’ I say.

  I don’t know what that means, but Mr Hodges smiles and writes it down.

  I describe the fish as ‘crunchiferous’, the veggies as ‘snaporific’ and the apple tart as ‘crustulant’.

  ‘Good on you, Clyde,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘You’re the perfect professional dining companion. And well done, Hamie, for making such a spot-on best friend.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ says Hamish quietly.

  Mr Hodge looks at me.

  ‘If I have a word with your parents,’ he says, ‘would you like to eat with us every night?’

  I hesitate for a moment. Only because I’m a bit worried about our dog, Garnish. Usually I take him for a walk each evening so I can slip him my dinner. He’s missed out for the last two nights. All he’s had is the regular dog food Mum gives him. But now I think about it, he’s probably better off. Look how much happier Hamish is now he doesn’t have to eat so much.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Mr Hodge. ‘I’d like that heaps.’

  ‘Right-oh,’ says Mr Hodge. ‘I’ll call your folks later. Now I need to check out the washroom. A restaurant reviewer’s work is never done.’

  After his dad has gone, Hamish gives a big sigh.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I don’t have to eat with you every night. Not every single night. You can have your dad to yourself sometimes.’

  I already have a plan. If I bring a couple of my plastic bags with me when I do eat with Hamish and his dad, I can stock up for the nights I don’t.

  ‘It’s not that,’ says Hamish. ‘I really like having you here. I’m very grateful for how much of my food you eat. I’ve lost two kilos in the last two days.’

  I’m puzzled. Hamish looks like he’s about to cry.

  ‘I just hate having a dad who’s a restaurant reviewer,’ says Hamish. ‘I just wish we could eat at home. Normal meals like a normal family.’

  I stare at Hamish. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Hamish is like a lottery winner who wishes he hadn’t bought the ticket.

  ‘We’ve been doing this for so long,’ says Hamish, ‘I think my dad’s forgotten what a normal meal at home is.’

  Hamish hesitates. He has that look people get when there’s something they want to ask but they’re not sure how. Even before he spits it out, I guess what it is.

  Oh no.

  ‘Clyde,’ says Hamish, ‘will you invite me and my dad to your place for dinner one night? So he can see how normal people do it. So when I ask him to give up his job he’ll understand.’

  I open my mouth to tell Hamish what a really bad idea that is. How only an idiot would ask a dad to give up the best job in the world. And how dinner at my place is about as far from normal as you can get without going into outer space and eating radioactive broccoli.

  But I don’t say it.

  Maybe it’s Hamish’s miserable face, or maybe it’s Ms Dunphy’s Other People’s Feelings project, but suddenly I’m putting myself in Hamish’s shoes.

  No normal meals.

  No mum.

  Body shape a whole club has been formed to mock.

  Only one friend in the whole world.

  And even though the chicken and fish and lamb in
my tummy have turned themselves into an anxiety burger, I invite Hamish and his dad to dinner at our place.

  ‘Come in,’ says Mum with a big smile a couple of nights later. ‘You must be Hamish.’

  I introduce Hamish and Mr Hodge to Mum and Dad and Garnish.

  We all go into the lounge.

  ‘Peanut?’ says Dad, once we’re all sitting down.

  My tummy goes tense. But it’s OK, Mum and Dad are sticking to what they promised. No home-roasted peanuts with curried prawn paste and fermented kelp. Just normal ones with salt out of a supermarket packet.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Mr Hodge, taking a handful.

  This is going well so far. Mr Hodge likes normal peanuts. If we can give him a whole normal meal, Hamish might get his wish.

  I try to concentrate on how good that will be for Hamish. I try not to think about all the restaurant meals I’m going to miss out on.

  Hamish loves the peanuts. Well, peanut. He only takes one.

  ‘Chip?’ says Dad.

  I go tense again, but it’s still OK. They’re normal chips out of a crinkly packet. Normal flavour, not even a hint of intestine.

  It’s amazing. I gave up trying to make Mum and Dad listen to me years ago. But yesterday, when I explained to them why tonight had to be normal, they actually heard me. I don’t know how I did it. Maybe when you’re trying to help a friend in desperate need, you get more determined.

  I’ll have to suggest that to Ms Dunphy as an idea for a project.

  Anyway, Mum and Dad are doing really well.

  We’re having a nice normal evening.

  So far.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ says Mum.

  OK, that’s not so normal. I don’t think hostesses normally herd guests towards the dinner table only four minutes after they arrive. I think Mum must be feeling a bit stressed by the effort of serving a normal meal.

  We go into the kitchen. Our dining table has been in the kitchen for years. Mum and Dad like to have it close to the stove because a lot of what they cook congeals very quickly.

  I glance anxiously around the kitchen. It looks fairly normal. Everything’s been packed away in cupboards, or under our beds. Except for the dried goat strips, which are hanging in my wardrobe.

  ‘Hope you like roast lamb, Charles,’ says Mum to Mr Hodge.